


I Think I Missed Him Too

by rottenwood



Category: South Park
Genre: Attempted Rape, Eventual Requited Love, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Onesided Style, Stan POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottenwood/pseuds/rottenwood
Summary: Stan recalls his long relationship with Kyle, and when it all went south."If you were to tell Kyle he was a germaphobe, he would have protested It fiercely, gritting his teeth and rolling green eyes, but I know it's the truth. Or it was the truth. I don't know so much of how Kyle is now, but I knew him then, and back then he was a germaphobe. I'm sure he still is."
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman, Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	I Think I Missed Him Too

If you were to tell Kyle he was a germaphobe, he would have protested It fiercely, gritting his teeth and rolling green eyes, but I know it's the truth. Or it was the truth. I don't know so much of how Kyle is now, but I knew him then, and back then he was a germaphobe. I'm sure he still is.  
I guess it all came from his obsessive nature, his constant need for order. It was always a joke, well a joke to the Nazi that hated him, that he was autistic or had Asperger's or something like that, which always pissed Kyle off to the nth degree. I don't know why, I do think he had something, and it's not like it's something to be ashamed of. But I guess in '70s backwater Colorado it was, so Kyle would protest that claim too.  
When my parents would spend the night arguing and my sister was in a bad mood, I'd find myself out walking the neighborhood in the dark, not even with a flashlight. I don't know what I was looking for, if anything, probably just some peace and quiet, but I'd always end up standing at Kyle's front door, hand poised to knock, wanting him to open it before I even could.  
When he did finally open the door, he'd stare at me with his big emerald eyes for a moment, and I'd stare back. There was something about those eyes- oh, I don't know. You could just get lost in the sparkle of them, the genuine shine and lust for life. Eventually, his lips would part into a gap-toothed grin and he'd usher me inside for a plate of warm, homecooked food and chocolate milk he couldn't have on account of his diabetes, with the plates and napkins and utensils lined up in his specific order. Sometimes his mother was in the kitchen, leaning over dirty dishes, and she would turn back and greet me with her Jersey drawl. After she left, Kyle'd hop up and clean the dishes again, with double the soap, while I sat and moaned about something inconsequential. Looking back I can see how annoying I was, griping constantly about things that usually didn't matter, little inconveniences in my day or something my dad said that ticked me off, but Kyle would always listen, humming along when he agreed, active in his giving of advice. I never took any but the option was there, and Kyle's ear was always open.  
In 10th grade, my girlfriend Wendy had broken up with me for what seemed like the hundredth time, and I had done my common meander to Kyle's house to complain, but when I arrived the place was dark. I had stood around outside for a while before sneaking out back and trying the sliding glass door to the kitchen. It was dark, the chairs tucked and table unset, not a single dish out to dry where Kyle always put them. When I pulled, the door opened easily, so I decided to sneak in and take a look for myself, canvasing the downstairs for any sign of life. Upon disappointment, I had decided I ought to at least poke around upstairs before I left, just in case he was asleep or something. It didn't feel as wrong as it probably seems to you; Kyle and I were as close as brothers and spent as much time in the other's house as our own. His mother even referred to me as her 'third son', and had welcomed me no matter what.  
But we often found ourselves the butt of our peer's "gay jokes", the calls of 'queer' and 'fag' accompanied by hysterical laughter becoming so commonplace I hardly noticed them. With Kyle, it was different, because he did notice, even when it was obvious bait from the fat Nazi that followed us around. And every time, he'd bite, turning and screaming about how he's no faggot before promptly storming off which, of course, never helped his case. I'm sure me running after him calling his name did us no favors either, but I didn't care. I couldn't care, because in my mind, it was just so untrue.  
I saw us as brothers, and I acted as such, but I don't think I ever really had a grasp of what Kyle saw. I can look back now at little things he did, little looks he gave me, and piece it together, but then I didn't know.  
Anyways, I had been standing in his doorway, watching the neat folds of his pristine bed to see if maybe he'd magically appear under them. For a long moment, I was motionless, worry and the beginnings of panic seeping down my spine, until the chime and light of his phone broke me from my spell, and I stumbled over to it in the dark.  
come downstairs bebe wants u 2 try the keg  
Immediately I knew he had gone to Token's party, an act so strikingly out of character I didn't even pause before running the entire way there.  
Tokens parties were huge. Well, as huge as it gets for hicktown USA, but still filled and always legendary. I haven't been in a single place with such a massive concentrate of alcohol outside of a liquor store since. See, every few weeks or months Token's parents would go out of town on some "romantic getaway", leaving only child Token with the house to himself and wad of cash for 'emergencies' (in every case, the emergency was being too sober), so Token would go out and pay homeless men to buy him as much alcohol as they could get.  
It was a hell of a lot of alcohol, but kids from three towns over would make the commute to come, so the basin would dry quickly. Not before almost everyone got shitfaced, of course, but quickly for most's standards.  
Kyle hated the parties for that reason, everyone was always drunk out of their minds, falling over and throwing up. I'd made him come to one a year earlier where he'd been thrown up on three times by three different people, and after that, he called it quits. I didn't blame him, especially after watching his germaphobe tantrum afterward, but it became a sore spot between us. Every few weeks I'd invite him to come, and he'd reply with some statistic about alcohol poisoning, which would piss me off as I was an unwitting alcoholic and I didn't want to hear that kind of truth. Sometimes I'd end up calling him towards the end of the parties, him picking up only one ring in, to drunkenly cuss him out before abruptly hanging up. He'd then sneak out, fully aware of the punishment his parents would give him if they found out, drive down, and bring me home. The car rides were either silent or filled with, from what Kyle told me the next day, "raving, lunatic rants about the government, school, the 'institution' or some unnamed 'them'". He'd help me out, clean me up, tuck me in, and never mention it again, but sometimes he'd stare at me with huge, disappointed eyes, and I would always lash at him for it. I was far too blinded to recognize his healthy concern; to me, Kyle was a prude who hated my kind of fun.  
So you can imagine the idea of him at one of these places was startling, almost terrifying.  
When I had finally arrived outside, a few people were lingering about, and one waved me over.  
"Stan," I remember his voice was heavy and lilting, and that I had no idea who he was. "Stan, Stan the man," He coughed. "The booze is all dried up, y' missed it."  
I had shaken my head. "I'm not here for booze," I said, before asking about my friend. The teen shook his head, looked to his friends, then shook it again. One girl next to him asked what he looked like, but shook her head as well when given a description.  
"I saw him," I had turned to see a smaller girl with deep brown hair and wide eyes. She looked too young to be there. "Upstairs, with some girl. Not doin' nuthin, but she were doin' somethin. He looked scared-"  
Upon the word scared, I remember running like hell inside, pushing past partygoers and drunk couples, slipping my way up. I began a frantic search- shit, I was terrified. Kyle didn't go to these things, and he never drank unless he was really upset, but even then I knew he was a lightweight. A very gullible, trusting lightweight.  
I pushed open doors, intruded on couples, snuck around stoners who stared at nothing with half-lidded eyes. As I continued down the hall I felt an intense feeling of getting 'hotter', like it was a sort of game and an invisible string was pulling me to the right answer, which happened to be a white door towards the end. I remember tugging the handle and pulling the door open so wide and so fast I'd felt a vague fear of it popping off its hinges, but I was so panicked I couldn't clearly care.  
The first thing I saw was a blonde girl, mostly clothed, straddling someone, who's legs kicked in sluggish distress. It was Kyle, his thin frame trapped under her as she worked to unbutton his jeans. He looked like he'd been crying, and was facing away from her with eyes screwed shut and face bright red, as she screamed at him.  
"Are you a queer?!" She'd screamed, and I remember being only able to stop and stare as his cries started up again. "A faggot? Is that why you're not-?" She began to awkwardly grind on him, and his distress became more visible but still weighed and groggy.  
Finally, the strange trance broke, and I stepped forward, yelling something I can't remember any longer, but it must've had weight as she jumped off of him and scurried past me, flushed with anger and, what I presume, embarrassment. Kyle just stayed there, staring up at the ceiling, and for once I found myself the caretaker, taking him home, cleaning him up, and tucking him in.  
While we made the walk back to his house, I learned his parents had taken Ike to a four-day hockey tournament, and Kyle was home alone. He'd only gone because Kenny said he'd needed help, but when Kyle arrived he'd already left, apparently ditching the blonde girl in the act. They'd struck up a conversation, laughing about Kenny and his promiscuous nature, but it had quickly dipped into flirting on her side and drinking for both. Kyle was crying again by the time we'd gotten to his house, and I carefully tried to help him shower and dress.  
It wasn't something unusual for us, we were used to each other's nude bodies having grown up side by side, but for some reason, he was awkward and flushed and refused to let me in to even make sure he didn't fall and hit his head. So I sat outside while the shower ran and watched the clock tick by. At that point, things had been becoming strained between us, I think that's why he didn't call to say he was going to Token's. He'd been hanging out with Cartman more than me, and the two would leave after school and disappear for hours. It scared me, but in his defense, I'd been ignoring him in favor of my girlfriend and hadn't really been talking to him more than in class or at the bus stop, so I suppose it was sort of destined to happen. Even the strongest friendships require actual communication.  
But it wasn't only me paying less attention to him, it was a growing sense of wariness, almost distrust, towards me from Kyle. At the time I had no idea why, I figured it was Cartman doing something to him, so in response, I became more hostile myself.

During this growth of distance between us, Summer came on fast, and I stood with Kenny under the bleachers after the last day. It was hot, both of us in short sleeves, crouched and watching ants take apart the carcass of a caterpillar. Kenny was waiting for Kyle, he'd said, but I'd seen the redhead with Cartman ten minutes prior so we decided to head that way to find him.  
South Park High was a particularly big school encompassing several of the small towns' youth in the area, but it was faded and falling apart. Funding was shitty and every program, except sports, was underfunded. A few years back they'd begun progress on a new science wing but stopped short when they realized they couldn't afford the new equipment, leaving a bunch of empty, unpainted classrooms. Sometimes they were used for overflow at events or class meetings, but usually they were used after school by kids to hookup. And that's where we found Kyle and Cartman, pressed on top of each other in the corner of a room, arguing and kissing. They didn't seem to notice either of us as we tiptoed away, stiff-backed and horrified by what we'd seen, and for that, I suppose I'm grateful. I know Kyle would have lost it, and Cartman would have blamed the Jew, so it was for the best.  
I remember not more than a few days later I'd confronted Kyle about him being gay, and he'd denied it so fervently I'd almost believed him. If I hadn't seen what I saw, I would have.  
I understood completely why he'd denied it. South Park wasn't even a good place to be Jewish, let alone gay, and his parents were cold and nonunderstanding people, who enforced rules and a strict household status quo.  
But it bothered me to no end he refused to be honest. It's not like I would've told anyone, I wasn't like that. We'd known each other since we were born, practically, but now it seemed we were strangers.  
Our angst reached a head not more than three months later, in the hallway during lunch in the first weeks of school, when I spoke my mind about him spending so much time with that fat Nazi. His face had grown red, spit out some retort about me not liking him much these days anyway, and I'd slapped him.  
I still regret that. I regretted it the moment I saw his eyes go wide and face slacken. He'd said nothing, and when I'd gone to apologize he simply turned and left. At this point we rarely hung out anyways, the last time we'd slept over being the night he got drunk, so it wasn't much of a loss for either of us to cut. I started hanging out with my friends on the football team and kept going with my on-again-off-again girlfriend, but none were like Kyle. By the end of the year we rarely spoke, but sometimes I'd catch Kyle staring at me, his eyes wide and longing and tinged with something I didn't know then. I just knew it was intense, and for some reason, it pushed fit of sorrowful yet stubborn anger. We were both waiting for the other to apologize, but neither of us would do it, so we sat in that same stalemate, waiting.

It wasn't long before Kyle's parents found out he was gay. In the worst way possible, Kenny told me later, reciting what Cartman had told him. They'd walked in on the two in the middle of the act. Kenny said Cartman was laughing about it, but it was obvious the event bugged him, and while seeing Kyle humiliated like that always brought about a certain joy, even Cartman felt a tinge of remorse as Kyle was verbally assaulted. According to the fat Nazi, Kyle's face was bright red, tears poised and ready to fall but held back by embarrassment and fear, so he stood silent and shaking before his homophobic, screeching parents.  
They shipped him to a correctional boarding school in the Northeast a week later. I remember Kyle sneaking into my room the night before he left, sobbing and shaking, apologizing and grasping at my hands like nothing had ever happened between us, like we were ten again and as close as brothers. He told me everything, about being gay and Cartman and his parents, in much more painful detail than Kenny and Cartman had. Eventually, he quieted, dropped his head onto my pillow, and looked at me. We stayed like that for a long time, my arms reaching out and holding him next to me.  
"I do love you," I remember him saying, staring into my eyes, fear gone. "I really, really love you, Stan." I didn't know what he meant, then, so I held him tighter and told him I loved him too, like a brother, and he began to cry again.  
It felt like only minutes before he turned and saw it was nearly two in the morning. Shooting up, he began explaining where he was going and for how long, making me promise to write as he scurried out the window, but never gave me an address, and every time I asked his parents they slammed the door in my face. Both their first and third sons were dead to them, it seemed.  
Two years passed and neither of us heard from Kyle. When we asked Ike, he shrugged, because he didn't even know what the name of the school was. Their parents were so afraid we'd get in contact with him they'd refused to tell anyone any details, all we could get from Ike was that it was a Jewish school and meant for troublemakers. Kyle was the farthest thing from a troublemaker I knew, and on occasion, I'd be unable to sleep, head clouded with worries on how he'd be faring amongst people like that. Eventually, I'd remind myself he'd handled Cartman of all people, he'd whip every boy there into shape, and finally fall asleep at least somewhat satisfied.  
But the fear never entirely went away.  
At the end of our senior year, the Broflovskis moved. Ike gave us a few of Kyle's things, including some buttons, a flag, and photos, before waving goodbye one last time. Watching the moving truck trundle away, I felt something snap. All three of us felt something snap. I don't think anything has ever been the same.  
It had been eight years since that fateful day when I finally saw Kyle again. AT that point I'd nearly given up hope, but I kept his photo in my wallet, and every time I saw someone even vaguely like him I'd pull it out just to see. It was never right. The eyes were too wide, or the nose too small, or the lips too thin, but eventually it did match up, in a café in Northwest Baltimore. He was hunched over a newspaper, drinking what seemed to be a caramel latte, which I remembered to be the only hot drink Kyle liked, sitting with a woman who was peering over his shoulder at the same paper. She was close, strikingly close, their cheeks brushing. Eventually he looked up and kissed her lightly, and if I hadn't had the picture in front of me I would've given up right then.  
Maybe that school had worked I had wondered, tugging at my sleeves while the barista waited for me to order. A cough from behind prompted me, and I asked for an earl grey tea. When I got it, I sat at the table next to him, watching him as inconspicuously as I could, still not quite sure it was him, but I realized it must be as I watched him rearrange their plates, napkins, and utensils in a strikingly familiar way.  
When the woman excused herself to the restroom, I took my chance and approached him. "Kyle?" I remember asking, and he did a double-take. We could do nothing more than stare at each other before his lips parted into their same old gap-toothed grin. For a minute it was like nothing happened, him lurching out of his chair to hug me before I could even say anything. But when I could, I did, prodding and asking and begging to know where he'd been as he took a deep sip of his coffee and ushered me to sit with him.  
He refused to name the school his parents sent him to, but shook his head quietly when I asked if it was bad. "It wasn't so bad," he said, folding the paper with that familiar zeal fading from his eyes. "I learned a lot there, especially about myself. My true self, you know, who I really am." A pause. "I'm not the same, you know. I'm a lot more mature now, I've changed."  
I couldn't quite believe what he was implying, but said nothing. He continued on about graduating from some Ivy League I couldn't pronounce and immediately getting a job as an accountant at a local Baltimore law firm. He had accomplished a lot, I noticed, and I felt inadequate having dropped out of college and still living off my mother's earnings. Soon the girl came back, smiling politely at me as her eyes raked up and down my body. I wasn't in particularly good shape that day, weary from exercise and in dirty grey sweats, but she said nothing.  
"And this," Kyle grinned at me, eyes widening as if he was trying to make himself look particularly joyful. "Is my fiancé,"  
"Rebecca," She stuck out a manicured hand, smiling. "Cotswold."  
I must have made a face as she leaned to me and asked if I was alright. I looked to Kyle, and he caught on, shaking his head with wide eyes and a dropped smile.  
"I've changed," He said. "I'm not the boy-" he spit the word boy as if it were putrid and unforgivable. "-I was then. I told you, I've found myself." Rebecca laid a hand on his back and smiled gently at him. He didn't even glance at her, keeping his eyes trained on me. "I'm a better person, now." Maybe I'm making it up now, but I swear I saw something that I'd seen the night he left, that same anxious longing, that same shaking, grasping fear. Kyle may have changed, but he was still the same scared teenager inside, bending to his parents' fiery wills because he knew if he didn't, if he dares have his own life, he would lose them. And for Kyle, family mattered more than his own life.  
I got angry. I couldn't control myself. I yelled at him, now I can't remember what, but the color had drained from his face and Rebecca had become suddenly aggressive. She told me to leave, to never talk to either of them again, and as I was ushered out I had told Kyle he was a lie, everything he was and he thought he was, was a lie. And he knew it.  
I know he knew it.  
Since then, I've seen Kyle a grand total of one time, and it was only a few days ago, and it's what inspired me to write this whole letter. I hope someone will read it eventually and pick up their phone to call that person they've forgotten. But I digress.  
Six years ago I went back to college and finished a degree in Computer Science. It was a lot more fun than I had thought it would be, and I quickly found myself able to pay not only my own bills, but also some of my mother's. While I bounced around jobs for a while the first year, I eventually landed a stable one helping code websites for big business, mostly law firms and property management companies. I'd decided to settle in Baltimore at this point, though I have no idea why, the weather is atrocious and the people don't smile. Maybe it was because of Kyle, maybe the job. I couldn't tell you.  
Anyway, four days ago my company was invited to a formal gathering celebrating the law firm's partnership. Apparently, they wanted as many people there as possible, so they were inviting anyone they could.  
My coworker and I spent a good part of the first hour watching the people who swarmed the cheese table, but his wife pulled him away to meet some of her friends so I was quickly left to people watch alone. Right before I was about to leave to find him, I saw something painfully familiar. In a crisp black suit holding a glass of champagne stood Kyle, alone.  
I wasn't really thinking, in all honesty, when I began walking over to him, and when I finally approached him I didn't know what to say. He peered at me through blank green eyes, before they widened with recognition and he slammed me into a brutal hug. I couldn't help but hug back, and we stood like that for a long moment. When I looked back at him, he was crying, just simple soft tears that clouded his eyes. All he could say was that he was sorry, sorry for everything. For growing distant, for being with Cartman, for getting caught, for leaving, for lying to me in the coffee shop.  
"I've been waiting," I remember him saying, leaning forward until the champagne spilled out of his cheap, plastic glass onto the AstroTurf. "Years, Stan, years to tell you I'm sorry." His eyes were suddenly alive, his smile infectious. I felt the need to hold him again, like when we were 16 and his parents sent him away, so I did, and he kept on crying. It was apparent we were making a bit of a spectacle of ourselves, so I ushered him away to a bathroom where we sat on the floor, not even minding the grime. It felt so wonderful to see him again, I don't know why. It just felt right, like something I didn't even know was missing was finally found. He spluttered that he'd thought about what I'd said after the coffee shop incident, and when the wedding rolled around he never showed up. He'd only seen Rebecca a few times after that, to give her her stuff back and such, but he felt so much better, a weight lifted from him.  
But not gone. "I don't know, Stan," He'd said to me, still holding the empty glass and staring ahead. "I didn't know what was wrong, or I knew but I couldn't admit it, until I saw you again, you know? I- Oh, God." He had sunken into himself and begun to cry again, so I did what felt natural and reached out to hold him. It was all so strange, I'll admit, but right. Very, very right.  
We talked for what felt like hours there, around the corner of the men's bathroom, catching each other up to date on everything.  
We'd missed so much of each other's lives, it was impossible to recount everything, and the end of the night came quickly. I didn't want to leave without him, but I had to drive my coworker and his wife home, so we bid a reluctant goodbye.  
On the ride back, his wife assaulted me with questions about Kyle. I'll admit I became aggressive towards the end, tired of her talking, but I couldn't help but soften at her final words before she left the car.  
"Whoever he is, this Kyle, he looks like he missed you." She grins at me before slamming the door shut.  
I missed him, too.  
I really, really did.

**Author's Note:**

> Trying a new approach! Fairly inspired by the author "Goodbye Porkpie Hat" on FF.net  
> Thoughts are greatly appreciated, as are questions.  
> any favorite/least favorite bits?


End file.
